


Song Stuck In My Head

by Profrock



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Musicians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5113742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Profrock/pseuds/Profrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil's best friend is getting married. How can one song change so many lives forever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Song Stuck In My Head

**Author's Note:**

> Yooooooo... I'm not dead! Yay! Sorry I've been inactive for literally over a month. School has been... hell to say the least, and that's putting it lightly. Gone for so long and I come back with this monstrosity, Jesus someone send help. Anyways. Have fun!

“Oh, I’m so proud of you, sweets,” Phil squeals, flinging out his arms for Bella to run right into. She’s crying, her mascara running in uneven streaks down her powder-pale cheeks. Phil mentally marks down that line for later use in a song as he pets her hairspray-sticky curls.

 

“My little Bella, already getting married,” he coos, giggling when she pulls back to glare at him before pressing back into his arms.

 

“I hate you,” she mumbles into his wine-red shirt. “I’m literally a month younger than you, old man.”

 

“Oi,” Phil warns, no bite behind his words. “Watch who you’re calling ‘old man’. Just because I haven’t found a nice boy to settle down with like yourself doesn’t mean I’m going to die cold and alone.”

 

“Not alone,” Bella says. “You’ll have your sixty-two cats to keep you company.”

 

Phil sticks his tongue out at her.

 

“Umm, Bells?” Coleen, Bella and Tomas’ friend and unofficial wedding planner cuts in. “We have a slight problem.”

 

“Of course we do,” Bella sighs, wiping at her running makeup with a napkin stolen off one of the tables.

 

Coleen huffs a grin. “The DJ hasn’t shown up. I’ve heard nothing and he’s not here.”

 

“Go make it Tomas’ problem,” Bella suggests, shooing Coleen off. “We’re married now, he has to deal with at least half of all of our issues.”

 

Coleen laughs and smiles before scurrying off to find the groom. Phil picks up the rainbow cocktail with a name he can’t pronounce that he ordered earlier, readily taking advantage of all of the free booze.

 

“Come on dearheart, lighten up! It’s your wedding day! You paid way too much money for everything you see around you, you’re only going to wear that stunning, three-thousand-dollar dress once, and it took way too long to set all this up, so you better be enjoying yourself. Here,” Phil says, thrusting the rest of his drink into Bella’s hand and signaling the bartender over for another.

 

“Dear God I love you,” Bella says, tossing back the fruity cocktail easily, ignoring Phil’s impressed eyebrows. “Where would I be without you?”

 

“Probably still hanging around with that Zach guy, ugh.” Phil rolls his eyes to the high heavens, flinging his hands out and almost catching one of the bridesmaids across the cheek. “What can I say? I’m a saint.”

 

“Indeed you are,” Bella sighs, leaning in to plant a peck on Phil’s cheek. “If you weren’t gayer than George Michael you’d probably be the one in a tux.”

 

“Honey,” Phil says, gesturing down at himself and his flawless clothing combination: A black tie and white waistcoat layered over his deep red shirt, very effectively slimming his waist and accentuating his shoulders. His black trousers fit like a second skin, shiny shoes poking out from underneath. “You think I’d just settle for a tux? I didn’t spend all this time in the closet for nothing, sweetcheeks.”

 

Bella’s laugh spills freely, her throat loosened by whatever was in her drink. Phil flicks his hair indignantly, muttering something about how _he’d_ be the one in a dress. A few of Bella’s girlfriends appear out of the crowd, pulling her towards the dance floor where Phil can see Thomas waiting. Coleen must have found a substitute DJ, then, if the dark-haired guy fiddling with settings on the turntable is any indication. Phil inches his way closer to the dance floor, making sure to keep within a few steps of the bar. He taps a manicured fingernail against the stem of his martini glass as he watches the DJ set up, eventually tearing his eyes away to engage in polite conversation with the aunt-type old lady who popped up out of nowhere.

 

The clamor and chatter around the crowded ballroom dies down quickly when the first chords of the first song begin to emanate from the huge speakers placed strategically around the room, at least somewhat hidden with huge bouquets of flowers.

 

_Gold star for effort_ , Phil thinks, chastising himself for the bite in his thoughts. He really needs to work on his inner bitch monologue.

 

‘ _When you try your best but you don’t succeed…”_ Chris Martin croons from the speakers. Phil watches with soft eyes as Bella and Thomas take to the center of the floor, holding each other close and gently swaying back and forth. Bella rests her head on Thomas’ shoulder and Phil refuses to cry for the second time that night. Once during the vows was enough, thank you very much.

 

The second verse kicks in and other couples start gradually migrating onto the dance floor: Elderly couples rock gently together and younger, newer couples clasp hands around waists and gaze into each other’s eyes. Phil doesn’t even try to reason his way out of downing his drink and signaling for another.

 

‘ _And I will try to fix you…”_

 

Bella and Thomas kiss for the crowd, his hands around her waist and her hands cupping his cheeks as they stand still for a few seconds before breaking apart and embracing. Phil isn’t ashamed in the slightest about the obnoxious whistle he lets out.

 

A new song begins to play, something synthetic with a pounding bass and Phil pulls back as the crowd surges forward and begins dancing in earnest. Refilled drink in hand, Phil wanders closer to the booth, trying to get a better look at whoever Thomas managed to round up on such a last-minute notice.

 

The guy is cute. Very, very cute. Phil is a little bit offended at the fact that he hadn’t managed to scope the guy out before now. He has to take a moment to breathe.

 

Full lips and a pixie nose and perfectly arched eyebrows and tanned skin and _hot damn_ Phil is _gone_. He realizes he’s been staring for longer than he thinks when the song changes, Thomas coming up behind Phil and clapping him on the shoulder.

 

“Enjoying yourself?”

 

“Very much so,” Phil replies, and if his eyes sneak back to the beautiful boy, well, no one can prove a thing.

 

“I’m so happy for Bella,” he says truthfully, turning around to fully face Thomas. “She was so excited the entire time she was planning this, just, even hearing your name could light her up like that. She loves you so much, and I’m so glad she’s finally found someone to keep up with her. She’ll make a great mother,” Phil says, watching her dance in a circle with a two-year-old flower girl. Thomas smiles huge. “Yeah,” he whispers, sounding choked-up. “We’ve been talking. Probably going to adopt in a year or two. She says she doesn’t want to bring a kid into this world while there are do many already out there who need love.”

 

“And you?” Phil asks, taking a sip of his drink. Thomas shrugs. “As long as she’s happy, I’ll be.”

 

“You’re sweet,” Phil comments, flicking his eyes back up to DJ boy. “Wish I could find a guy like you.”

 

Thomas laughs, loud and bellowing.

 

“Hey, so who did you manage to find to fill in on music?” Phil asks, completely changing the subject. “Coleen seemed pretty stressed about it.”

 

“Yeah,” Thomas says, motioning up at the guy. “That’s Daniel, my little cousin. Studies law in London, but really passionate about music. We’d all joke he was like Beethoven in a tone-deaf family.”

 

_Daniel. Cousin. Law. Music._ Phil’s brain files that information away for later without his consent.

 

“Anyways, catch you later, Phil,” Thomas says, pulling Phil in for a hug before melting back into the crowd of moving people. Phil smiles, mostly to himself, and keeps his back to the wall and he slinks to the back of the room, sitting down at one of the abandoned tables and tapping his fingers along to whatever catchy pop hit Dan is blasting through the speakers. At some point, he knows that Bella and some of her girlfriends will drag him out onto the dance floor, but he’s enjoying his alone time for now.

 

*

 

Dan does have good taste, Phil must admit. He recognizes the next two songs Dan plays, both of them nice rock songs with electronic accents layered cleanly over. He halfway considers getting out of his seat and dancing by himself at least three times, each time settling back into his chair and sipping his drink with new determination.

 

The fifth song of the night – by Phil’s count – is the one that seals whatever deal he’s been making.

 

The beginning instrumental bit is different in Dan’s remix than it is on the studio version of the song, so Phil barely recognizes it as his own until he hears his own voice –albeit edited – pouring out through the speakers.

 

_‘Glad that you’ve found God cause I’m on my way straight to hell. Give my mother and Mary a hug from me and tell them I’ve been well…’_ Phil’s legs are moving before he even has time to think, carrying him through the crowd and back over to near the DJ booth and, more importantly, near to Dan.

 

Phil is tall. This is a fact about himself that he knows well. Phil can also be horribly absentminded, often leading him to crash into a wall or trip over his own two feet because he isn’t concentrating enough to put one foot in front of the other. Most people seem to mistake his absentmindedness for clumsiness, however, and Phil always loves when he can prove them wrong. He is actually a fairly coordinated human, fuck you very much, and being in the music business for a few years has exposed him to some very talented physical and musical individuals who skills he picked up at some point or another.

 

In other words, Phil has the booty and he knows how to shake it.

 

And if he just so happens to be exactly in the line of sight of the cutest boy he’s seen in a long time, well, no one can prove jack shit as far as Phil’s concerned.

 

‘ _The fires of hell can’t burn as bright as your fucked-out eyes in the bedroom light…’_ Phil is singing over the sound system, not that anyone but him knows that.

 

He flicks his hair out of his eyes and brings one hand up to grip loosely at his own shoulder as his hips start to swing slowly to the thrumming bass line he remembers having so much trouble writing. Dan’s eyes flick up, locking with Phil’s for a spilt second, and Phil most definitely takes advantage of this situation. He bites his bottom lip, drawing it seductively through his teeth as he pushes the hand on his shoulder up though his hair, tangling in the silky black and pulling his head sideways, exposing the line of his throat.

 

Dan is staring. Phil can _feel_ his heavy-lidded look as he snaps his hips out and runs his hand down his own chest, still moving in time with the music.

 

_‘Those hips, that ass, that sinful smile. I’m caught, tangled up, please stay a while…’_

Phil drops, running one hand up his thigh and one back up to his hair. He gracefully rolls back up to standing with a sensual undulation just as the song ends, fixing his tie and tossing a sweat-flushed smirk over to Dan, who stares back at him open-mouthed

 

Phil snags an ice water that definitely doesn’t belong to him and leans against the far wall, watching Dan frown after him. They make eye contact and Phil closes his lips around the straw, sucking hard and winking. Dan blinks a few times before ducking burning cheeks back down to his laptop and turntable, trying to push the sweat-slicked black-haired dancing boy to the back of his mind. It really does not work as well as he had hoped it would.

 

*

 

Phil smirks to himself as Dan changes the song for the seventh time in as many minutes. Subtly of course, blending each song with great skill into the other, but Phil isn’t biting. He’s waiting.

 

Finally, he hears a familiar voice growl through the speakers and he makes his move, pushing off the wall and strutting back over to where Dan is.

 

‘ _I kick you in your crooked smile and you just call me feisty. Pretty kitty, claws coming out, just begging you to try me…’_

 

Phil busts out all of his stops, rolling and moving and dancing so naturally, so fluidly, as if the music is simply using his body as a vessel. He doesn’t know what he’s doing even as he’s doing it, completely giving himself over to the beat and his own – rather selfish – desires.

 

Dan’s eyes are glued to the mesmerizing display in front of him, his eyes tripping down Phil’s sensual form, practically _writhing_ on the dance floor.

 

_‘The smell of smoke and sex and sin. Take me down as I take you in…’_

Phil is so sure of his movements, cracking open one eyelid as he sucks two fingers into his mouth and lets his head fall back. He catches Dan’s dropped mouth but not the high-pitched whimper that accompanies it, the sound too quiet to be heard over the pounding music in the room.

 

Dan’s eyes track a single bead of sweat glistening down Phil’s cheek and dripping off his chin, reminding himself that he is at his cousin’s wedding and not a dance club, so it would probably be considered inappropriate to jump down from his stand and start grinding against the dark stranger.

 

‘ _Your hair, your lips, your eyes; divine. But now your mind is gone; your body’s mine…’_

Phil finishes his dance with a particularly sexy roll of his hips, ending with one hand tangled in his hair and the other loosely gripping his own tie. His cheeks are flushed, his breath coming fast and sweat making his hair stick to his forehead. He flicks his sticky fringe out of his face with a wink and a smirk, sashaying his way to a seat in the corner and plopping down. He flings his left leg over his right, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. Dan doesn’t even try to pretend he’s not staring.

 

It’s at least thirty minutes since Dan has seen any trace of Tall-Dark-And-Beautiful on the floor, no matter what song he plays. Dan is feeling, well, he refuses to say _disappointed,_ but yeah okay he’s a little bit disappointed. He quickly sets up a queue and leaves, going over to the bar to put something alcoholic into his system, and fast.

 

Phil hasn’t been _watching_ Dan, okay, he’s just been casually observing a particular person that he finds remarkable over a long period of time. And it is totally plausible coincidence that he just so happens to want to get himself another drink when Dan steps up to the bar.

 

And _even more_ plausible coincidence that he just so happens to bump Dan’s arm with his own, sloshing a few drops of Dan’s Jack and coke onto his fingers.

 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Dan mutters hastily, shoving his liquor-sticky fingers into his mouth and grabbing a handful of cocktail napkins with the other. Okay, maybe Phil is staring. But only just a little bit, promise.

 

“I am so sorry, I didn’t even look where I was –“ Dan babbles, spinning around and smacking directly into Phil’s chest.

 

“Oh,” Dan says dumbly, wide unblinking eyes fixed on Phil’s hands on his biceps, steadying him. “Uhh.”

 

“You okay?” Phil asks kindly, and Dan swings his huge doe eyes up to Phil’s face. Phil can almost see the circuitry in Dan’s brain shorting out. “You need anything?”

 

“No. Maybe. I mean – yes I’m okay, no I don’t need a thing. Anything. Um. Yeah. You know what I think I’m gonna go over there for a while now –“ Dan chatters on, keeping full eye contact with Phil. Phil watches in amusement as a deep crimson flush works its way higher up Dan’s cheeks with every word.

 

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” Phil comments idly, his hands still firmly gripping Dan’s upper arms.

 

“I – you – what – thank you?” Dan’s glowing cheeks are bright enough to light up all of London.

 

“Well, it would be a crime to say you’re not cute the rest of the time, just especially now.” Phil releases Dan, trailing his fingers down Dan’s arms. Dan quickly gulps down the almost-forgotten drink in his hands, slamming the empty glass down on the bar. He hopes Phil doesn’t notice his shaking hands.

 

“Oh, I’m Phil by the way,” Phil says, doffing an imaginary hat. “And you are Daniel, correct?”

 

“It’s – um, it’s Dan actually,” Dan manages to stutter out, mentally high-fiving himself for not making a complete fool of himself. As if it isn’t already too late.

 

“Well then _Dan_ , why don’t I get you another drink and we can sit and chat for a while?” Phil asks, somehow managing to look up through his lashes at the shorter man.

 

“Please.”

 

Phil laughs - the loud, genuine, honking laugh he’s gotten better at not doing in front of people who aren’t his close friends and family - quickly smothering it with his hand, embarrassed.

 

Dan blinks hard a few times, trying to permanently etch the picture of Phil smiling huge with his tongue poking out between his teeth into his memory for all eternity.

 

 “Come on,” Phil says, picking up two glasses and motioning with his head. “Let’s go where it’s quieter, yeah?”

 

Dan follows Phil into the cool night air without a word. People have begun to congregate on the outside patio, laughing and drinking away from the clammy heat of the ballroom, but Phil leads Dan around the corner of the building to a small rose garden, sitting on one of the benches there. The cool stone is refreshing compared to the humidity inside, the chill seeping through Dan’s shirt and making him shiver slightly.

 

A woman – one of the bridesmaids, going by her silver-grey dress – stumbles by with an equally drunk man in a suit, the pair giggling loudly as they trip their way down the path.

 

“I will say one thing for you,” Phil remarks, keeping his head tilted towards the bright moon. Dan imagines him with a cigarette; smoke curling thin and light against the somber black-blue of the midnight sky. He adds that image to his rapidly growing mental folder simply labeled ‘ _Phil’._ “You do indeed have exceptional taste in music.”

 

“Glad someone finally sees it for what it’s worth,” Dan mumbles, ears turning pink when Phil chuckles lightly at his sarcastic retort.

 

“But seriously, I never thought that pre-hiatus Fall Out Boy could blend so well with Kanye West. You have talent.”

 

“Nah, it’s just because Kanye West is the Kanye Best,” Dan says, brushing off the compliment. Phil gives him a strange look, his eyebrows pursed and his smile warm.

 

“Sarcastic, adorable and talented, seems like I’ve hit some sort of jackpot,” Phil says with a wink, relishing the shade of pink that Dan turns in the flickering torchlight, shadows dancing gently across his face.

 

“Says you,” Dan mumbles, ducking his head and throwing up a shy smile.  


“Oh please,” Phil says, crossing his legs and waving a hand. “I make up for being this hot with a lack of personality.”

 

Dan cracks up.

 

“But you are,” Phil says, once Dan has quieted down. “Talented, I mean.”

 

“Thanks,” Dan says, and he looks like he genuinely means it. “But I’m really not. I just take things people have already done and put them together.”

 

“And who’s to argue that that isn’t an art form on its own?” Phil shoots back.

 

“Because none of that is really _me_ making anything. I’m more like Frankenstein, stitching up other people’s things into something cool.”

 

“Well. I say that you’re good and my word is law you can’t argue,” Phil proclaims after a minute, nodding his head to set his words. “Ah-ah-ah,” he scolds mockingly, wagging a single finger when Dan opens his mouth to protest. “Take the compliment, my dear.”  


“Yeah, yeah, okay fine.” Dan pauses, crossing his right ankle over his left knee. “So, um, you like Winter Hart too? You were dancing to them earlier – quite well, I might add.”

 

Winter Hart. Phil’s stage musician name.

 

“Huh? Oh yeah. That Winter Hart guy, I guess,” Phil says, feigning ignorance.

 

Dan’s face is priceless. “Oh. Oh no no no. Not ‘that guy.’ Winter Hart is never just ‘that guy,’ excuse you.”

 

Phil stifles a giggle, desperately trying to keep up a straight face.

 

“Sit the fuck down, shut the fuck up, it’s story time motherfucker,” Dan says, spinning to sit facing Phil with his legs crossed.

 

“Okay, so first of all let’s just focus on his music because _Jesus Christ_ that man is a gift to us all. His songs sound like fucking _sex,_ okay. I mean, like, come on. His new single, Not So Straight to Hell? The one I played earlier? It literally sounds like heroine poured over cigarettes poured over rough, pounding sex and _oh my god_. That song gave me back my virginity and then slowly, determinedly, took it away again. I literally _cannot_.

“And that man’s voice! It’s all low and husky and makes you want to break shit and fuck all of your ex’s friends and then he goes high and you just want to run naked through the streets at midnight, screaming the lyrics as loud as you possibly can from the roof of the tallest building you can find, you feel me?”

 

“I’m just liking your descriptions,” Phil says honestly. “Wonder what he would say if he could hear this.” The direct shot Dan is giving to his ego is making Phil a little bit cocky.

 

“I would probably have to throw myself into the sun,” Dan says. “But okay then the _lyrics_ , mate, fuck me.”

 

“Maybe later,” Phil mutters under his breath. If Dan hears him, he ignores the remark.

 

“How he can go from poetic and meaningful as fuck in one song, like Overcast Hearts where he’s all ‘ _I’m not the dark to your light and I don’t shine like you do. All I can is put out and hope you’ll carry me through’?_ He’s saying that he can’t hold his own in the shadows, that he’s not a total introvert, and he needs other people around him to validate him and stuff, but then this person that he’s talking about, the one who’s approval he seems to be seeking, shines brighter than he does. Maybe they’re just bigger and louder and less shy, I don’t know, but he feels inadequate even with those he’s closest to and sometimes I just want to give the guy a hug, you know, and tell him that hey, you have a ton of people who adore you for _you_ , for the words you say and the art you make, and I just think that with all of the focus on who he actually is, people really seem to forget that he is human too, and needs to be treated as a person and not an object to dance for our entertainment.”

 

Phil’s tongue is sticking to the top of his mouth when he says “Wow, okay, someone has too much time on their hands to devote to overanalyzing song lyrics.”

 

Dan blushes, but keeps his chin up.

 

“I kind of feel for the guy too, you know? Wanting to be out of the limelight and all. A bunch of people I know who are in to him think he’s being selfish, or doing it to keep up the ‘mysterious image’ that he has, but I think he’s just scared, you know? He just wants to actually be a person instead of some face plastered across the world, his every move watched and filmed and analyzed, all of his tiny mistakes blown up into ridiculous fake issues. It’s quite honorable, actually, in my mind.”

 

“Huh,” Phil says quietly. “Never really thought about it in that way,” he says. _Never realized anyone understood_ is what he wants to say, but Dan’s back to running his mouth.

 

“And the guy himself is just such a wonderful person. Like actually. He is what I aspire to be, tbh.”

 

“Wait, okay, did you seriously just use ‘tbh’ in a verbal conversation?” Phil asks, incredulous.

 

“Drag me,” Dan says with a flick of his hand. Phil shakes his head with a fond smile.

 

“He’s donated thousands and thousands of dollars to all sorts of different charities, and uses his name to bring awareness to that sort of thing. A fan was complaining over Twitter how she couldn’t buy his new album off iTunes because she couldn’t afford it at the time, and he _bought_ her a hundred and fifty pound iTunes gift card. He talks to his fans, he’s super nice to them, and he’s downright adorable. I mean come on, he has Pokémon socks and likes Muse, I don’t know what else you could ever want in a man. And did I even tell you how nice he is? He is literally the most adorable, uncontroversial, downright _sweetest_ person to exist on this planet and nothing will ever convince me otherwise.”

 

“All right then,” Phil says after a moment of stunned silence. “I see you are already in a committed fictional relationship, I guess all of my efforts have been in vain then.” He grins hugely at the irony of what he’s saying. “What’s your fan blog, I might have to follow it.”

 

Dan’s cheeks are completely red by this point, and he coughs twice. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says primly. Phil laughs.

 

“Whatever mate, you just do you I guess. Or, you know, you could do me instead, I think I would be fine with that too.”

 

Dan gives him a ‘why-is-this-dork-so-cute’ look as he dissolves into giggles, the alcohol finally seeming to really take effect. Phil offers Dan his own still-full drink, which Dan accepts after a dubious glance and a sniff.

 

“Holy shit that’s good,” he says after taking the first tentative sips.

 

“Yeah, I know, it’s what I’ve been having all – Jesus Christ, slow down, mate.”

 

Dan lowers the empty glass from his lips sheepishly. “Whoopsies,” he says, giggling. Phil rolls his eyes. “Stay here, I’ll be back with more in a second.”

 

Dan does, staying put and watching the moths collect around the outdoor heater with a slight sense of impending doom settling in his chest for a reason his foggy brain can’t exactly put words to. Phil plops back down with two more glasses, another one of his drinks for Dan and a soda for himself.

 

“So, law then,” Phil says, glancing sideways at Dan’s look of surprise and grinning. “I’m just trying to imagine you in a courthouse, and it’s not really working.

‘Literally – ‘

‘Tbh, your honor – ‘

‘Omg I literally can’t even right now –‘” Phil says in his best impression of Dan. Dan laughs.

 

“Yeah, I guess you have a point. Law school is horrid, I don’t even know why I chose it.

Well, that’s a lie. I chose it because I don’t have the slightest idea what I want to do in my life, so I defaulted to what my parents wanted for me, which is to be a lawyer. I was on this whole acting idea in school but dropped that because reality exists.”

 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Phil says truthfully. “I always hate it when people give up on aspirations because they think they aren’t being realistic. Seems a bit of a waste of a dream, don’t you think?”

 

“Yeah,” Dan agrees softly.

 

Phil reaches out and lays a hand on Dan’s knee, rubbing gently.

 

“Hey now,” he says. “I don’t mean to say you’re a waste of a dream, okay? Because if I’m being honest, you’re my midnight daydream right now.”

 

“Poetic,” Dan smirks, his eyes dropping a fraction of the heaviness they had been holding a moment before.

 

“I try,” Phil says, standing and extending an arm back to Dan. Dan sets his second empty glass on the bench, using Phil’s hand to pull himself up.

 

“Woah,” Dan slurs, stumbling a little bit. He presses a palm to his temple and shakes his head. “Sorry, everything went a little fuzzy there for a second.”

 

Phil nods, not letting go of Dan’s hand as he leads him around the side of the building and inside through a side door, ending up at a bank of elevators.

 

“Wait,” Dan says, his liquor-addled brain finally catching up with him. “Where’s we going?”

 

“I’m taking you back to my room,” Phil says, as if it’s obvious. “It’s almost two in the morning, Dan, we’ve been outside a good couple of hours. Dan hums and leans in, resting his chin on Phil’s shoulder.

 

“If I put on more Winter Hart, will you dance again?” Dan purrs, draping a hand heavy and solid around Phil’s waist.

 

“Depends on how drunk you get me first,” Phil replies, pulling Dan into the elevator and leaning back against the wall as they begin to move up.

 

“You’re really pretty,” Dan mumbles, cupping Phil’s cheek in his hand.

 

“And you blush so bright you put the sun to shame,” Phil retorts, placing his hands on Dan’s hips.

 

Dan flushes ruby, as if to prove Phil’s point.

 

“Can I kiss you?” Dan asks softly, leaning in but keeping a few inches between them.

 

“How drunk are you?” Phil asks in lieu of an answer. Dan blinks a few times. “Sort of?”

 

“Then no,” Phil says, smiling at Dan’s pouty look.

 

“Pleeeese?” Dan asks again. His eyes flick from Phil’s eyes to his mouth. “I kind of really, really want to.”

 

“I don’t want you to do anything you night regret sober,” Phil explains, pushing Dan’s chest lightly and leading him out of the elevator.

 

“How could I ever regret you?” Dan asks, almost too soft for Phil to hear.

 

He steps up behind Phil as Phil fumbles with his key card, sliding his arms around Phil’s waist and resting his chin on his shoulder again.

 

“Dan,” Phil warns lightly.

 

“What? I’m not doing anything,” Dan teases, stepping into the room behind Phil and making a running leap for the bed.

 

Phil laughs as Dan catapults himself onto the queen-sized bed, promptly skidding across the expensive lilac sheets and sliding off the other side.

 

“This is bullying!” Dan hollers from his spot on the floor, swatting at Phil who leans over the bed to laugh at him.

 

“Come on, get on the bed,” Phil says, walking back towards the minibar and fishing out a bottle of vodka.

 

“Phil!” Dan gasps in mock-offence, giggly and uncoordinated through the fog of intoxication.

 

“Shhhh,” Phil laughs, waving a hand.

 

“If not that, then what else are we doing?” Dan asks. Phil frowns as he types the password to his laptop incorrectly for the sixth time in a row and takes another swig of vodka.

 

“Watch High School Musical,” Phil says, the ‘ _duh_ ’ implied in his tone. Dan nods considerately.

 

“Why?” he asks as Phil finally manages to access his laptop, pulling up Netflix and walking back over to climb onto the bed beside Dan.

 

“I dunno,” Phil says after a few drunken moments of careful consideration. “Seems like the thing to do?”

 

“Good enough for me,” Dan says, making grabby hands for the bottle of vodka Phil clutches to his chest like a prize. Phil hands it over, watching the line of Dan’s throat as he tips his head back, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

 

“If you sing along I am kicking you out of bed,” Phil mumbles, tearing his gaze from Dan’s sweat-shining skin. All of the alcohol he had over the course of the night is finally catching up to him, making his head pleasantly fuzzy and warm.

 

Dan scoffs. “Oh please like you don’t.”

 

“Touché.” Phil situates himself against the headboard, patting the spot next to him. Dan giggles at an untold joke as he scoots himself up the bed, putting his head on Phil’s chest and humming contentedly.

 

The opening credits begin flashing across a snowy resort town as Phil settles himself in and takes another swig from the bottle. Dan rubs his head against Phil chest and makes a huffy sound. Phil rests his hand on Dan’s hair, beginning to curl from the humidity, and Dan makes a pleased noise. Phil starts stroking Dan’s hair, humming along to Troy and Gabriella’s opening duet.

 

“I’ll still wanna kiss you,” Dan points out, lifting his head to twist and look back up at Phil. “In the morning, I mean. When I’m like… not fun.”

 

“Kay,” Phil hums happily. He shifts slightly, crinkling his face up.

 

“What?” Dan asks with a giggle at Phil’s expression.

 

“S’not comfy,” Phil complains, wriggling around some more. He eventually shoves Dan up and off of his lap, Dan having to flounder in the sheets for a few seconds before finally regaining the coordination required to actually sit up.

 

He stares open-mouthed at Phil, who is currently wriggling clumsily out of his trousers and shirt, leaving him in nothing but a rather well fitting pair of grey boxer briefs. Dan’s hands are moving out to touch before his brain even registers it. Phil hums against the lip of the vodka bottle as Dan’s cool fingertips dance across his stomach, shivering slightly when Dan brushes a particularly ticklish spot on his ribcage.

 

“Come on, your turn,” Phil says, sitting up on his knees and leaning forward into Dan with a sense of purpose. Dan grabs the liquor bottle, taking a long pull to steady his buzzing head.

 

Phil works on the buttons of Dan’s dress shirt with a single-minded determination, his lopsided grin growing incrementally larger with each plastic disk he manages to free. Dan quickly sheds his shirt once Phil is done, sucking in a quick breath when Phil begins on the button and zip of his pants.

 

Dan’s nails are pressing small, red, half-moon indents into his palms as Dan struggles to remain still. All of his senses are heightened. Every brush of cloth or Phil’s fingers burn white-hot against his too-thin skin.

 

Phil sits back triumphantly once he is done, motioning Dan to finish removing his trousers. Dan shifts his hips up and yanks the tight black trousers down and off his legs, tossing them aside and quickly shedding his socks as well. Phil winks in approval, and all of Dan’s blood is redirected to his cheeks.

 

“Please,” Dan whines, sitting forward and ducking his head to Phil’s neck; fingers itching to touch; tongue desperate to taste.

 

“No,” Phil says sternly. He jerks upright when Dan’s lips trail wet and hot down his collar, stopping to nibble lightly at the junction of Phil’s neck and chest.

 

“ _No,”_ he insists, tangling one hand in Dan’s hair and pushing against his chest. Dan moves back, tipping his head back with a soft sound.

 

Phil releases his hair and Dan pouts like a child, huffing and pushing Phil back against the headboard so he can settle in to his chest again.

 

“Be that way,” he mumbles as Phil taps the spacebar on his laptop.

 

“I will,” Phil retorts, keeping a serious face for all of two seconds before dissolving in to giggles.

 

Both men are passed out before the opening notes of “Get You Head In The Game.”

 

*

 

The sheets Dan wakes up wrapped in are purple. Dan does not own purple sheets. Therefore, Dan must not be in his own bed, at least according to his it’s-early-and-I’m-hungover reasoning. Confused, Dan flails slightly, sitting up and glancing around.

 

He groans loudly at the splitting headache the sunlight streaming through the open curtains brings, flopping back onto the sheets and covering his face in the purple-so-not-his duvet.

 

The running water Dan didn’t realize was on turns off, and he hears a door creak open.

 

“Wakey wakey eggs and bakey,” Phil sing-songs, yanking back the covers and basking in Dan’s death glare.

 

“I’m vegan,” Dan grumbles, covering his head with a pillow.

 

“Wakey wakey vegetables and sadness,” Phil amends, grabbing Dan’s ankles and dragging him off the mattress and on to the floor.

 

“Oh my fucking shit balls fucking hell you ass,” Dan groans. Phil laughs at his choice of words, poking his toes into Dan’s shoulder.

 

Dan mumbles a few more incoherent swears, extending a hand for Phil to pull him to his feet. He sways, dizzy when he finally manages to get upright.

 

“Oh fuck,” he gasps, collapsing into Phil’s chest. A few drops of freezing water drip from Phil’s soaked hair onto Dan’s neck, making him shiver.

 

“Stop the world please, I’d like to get off.”

 

“Might want to get dressed, first,” Phil notes with a laugh. Dan cracks one eye open, glancing down at himself. “Huh. Do I even want to know what happened?”

 

“Apparently, according to my laptop browsing history,” Phil starts, Dan cutting him off with a groan and shoving his face further into Phil’s neck. “I never like how those sorts of stories end.”

 

“We just got down to our underwear and watched High School Musical, Dan, promise.”

 

Dan frowns, a few blurred pieces of last night coming back to him. He flushes scarlet.

 

“There we go,” Phil says, cupping Dan’s burning cheek. “I was afraid I dreamed that up.”

 

Dan wraps his fingers in Phil’s shirt, pulling himself closer. “Did we, uhm –“

 

“Nope,” Phil said popping the ‘p’. “Nothing.”

 

“Damn,” Dan mutters under his breath, stepping back.

 

“Come on. Go shower,” Phil says, his eyes warm. “You can borrow some of my clothes. Let’s go get breakfast.”

 

“Yeah, sure. Thank you,” Dan says, strolling into the bathroom and swinging the door shut behind him. Phil hears the water turn on, Dan humming a familiar melody as he steps into the tub.

 

‘ _MJ’s not the only one with a man in the mirror…’_ Phil sings along with Dan in the shower as he gathers clean clothes for Dan to wear. ‘ _I don’t wanna see my own face; yours so much clearer. Let me reimagine, reengineer you…’_

The water shuts off and Phil knocks on the door, Dan opening it in a towel. Phil hands him the pile of clothes with a wink, making Dan grin shyly with a soft ‘thank you’ before closing the door again. Phil wanders over to the floor-length mirror, fixing his hair and continuing to hum under his breath.

 

Dan reemerges from the bathroom, Phil’s short-sleeved button up shirt hanging a little bit loose off his slender shoulders.

 

‘Shall we?” Phil asks, spinning over to his room’s door and tossing it open with a wink and smirk.

 

“We shall,” Dan says, shoving his feet into his shoes, determined to not get so flustered over Phil’s flirtatious behavior. It only lasts about two seconds. Phil smacks his bum a little as Dan passes, and that whole resolution goes right out the window as Dan flushes a deep crimson and trips over his own feet on his way into the hall.

 

*

 

 

“Head any better?” Phil asks, setting a plate of pancakes and cold fruit from the hotel’s complimentary breakfast buffet in front of Dan.

 

“Much, thank you,” Dan replies with a smile, sipping his tea.

 

“Of course.” Phil crosses his legs and sips his coffee as Dan spears a piece of pineapple with his fork.

 

“First off,” Phil says, gracefully shoveling pancakes into his mouth. “Where do you live?”

 

“London,” Dan says, watching in amusement as Phil eats. “Live with a friend who goes to Uni with me.”

 

“Really? Cool! Me too. Not with the Uni friend, I mean, I just live in London too.” Phil frowns, setting down his fork as he traces back through what he had just said. He shrugs. “You know what I mean.”

 

“Afraid I do,” Dan mumbles, giggling at Phil’s mock offended expression. The pair falls into animated chatter until their plates are clean.

 

“How is your family, Dan?” Phil asks softly after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

 

Dan sets down his fork. “Average, I guess.”

 

“I don’t know, you just seemed a little… _off_ about them last night, but I wasn’t sure if I should –“

 

“No, no, no, it’s alright,” Dan says with a sigh, picking up his mug and swirling the last dregs of his tea before downing them.

 

“I mean,” he eventually speaks, choosing his words carefully. “They’re not bad people. I know that they love me and just want the best for me, but when it comes to my life and choices, they can be very… _persuasive_.”

 

Phil nods, thoughtfully chewing a grape.

 

“Law just isn’t my thing, you know? I’m a horrid procrastinator for one, and it’s just not something I’m interested in perusing. But I’m just trying to stick it out for now, until I either finish my degree or find something else I can do, I guess.” He pauses, staring down at his empty plate.

 

“But what about music then?” Phi asks softly. He feels like Dan is too delicate, too exposed, like a stiff gust of wind will send him off into the sky.

 

“Same as acting, honestly. Not exactly a viable career option for me, realistically.”

 

Phil’s lips twitch up in a half-smile.  
  
“What do you do, then?” Dan asks, voice lighter. “Something you like, I hope.”

 

“Oh, um, well, speaking of music not being a viable career, I actually work for SubSonix Recods.”

 

Dan’s eyes triple in size and his jaw drops with an audible pop.

 

Phil smirks. “Well, if that’s all I needed to say to render you speechless, I would have stopped trying long ago.”

 

Pink creeps its way back in to Dan’s complexion, but he’s fighting it with a grin.

 

“So, what do you do then?”

 

Phil waves a hand. “Come on, I know you just like it because that’s where Winter Hart is signed.”

 

“Hmm? Oh, no, the possibility hadn’t even crossed my mind, actually –“ Dan stammers.

 

Phil looks at him, bemused.

 

“Okay yeah, maybe a little bit,” Dan mumbles, his ears burning. Phil tosses his head back and laughs.

 

“Wait,” Dan says after Phil’s laughter dies down. He narrows his eyes and points an accusatory finger at Phil’s nose. “You said you didn’t know who they were last night, I remember. And then I went on this really embarrassing fangirl rant, but we aren’t talking about that.”

 

“I never said I didn’t know who they were,” Phil defends, a smirk toying at his lips. “You just took what I said entirely out of context and spun it so you could talk about him.”

 

Dan purses his lips, squinting at the ceiling, deep in thought. “No,” he says slowly. “I don’t think you did.”

 

“I did,” Phil defends with a grin.

 

“No, you didn’t,” Dan shoots back, smiling just as wide.

 

“Yes, I actually did. If I remember correctly, my exact words were ‘oh, that Winter Hart guy, right?’”

 

Dan slumps back in his chair, not even realizing he had been leaning father and farther over the table over the course of their exchange, crossing his arms and huffing.

 

“I could have sworn…” he mumbles to himself. Phil pats his hand consolingly. “You were piss drunk for a surprising amount of our time together last night, I don’t blame you for not remembering.”

 

Dan steals a grape off of Phil’s plate in retaliation.

 

“Want to head back up to the room?” Phil asks, not even realizing he says ‘the’ and not ‘my’, as if he and Dan are sharing a room. As if they are together. If Dan notices, he ignores it and nods, uncrossing his legs and standing up, following Phil out of the now-bustling restaurant.

 

The men are silent in the elevator, the only sound present being that of the mechanics whirring to bring them upwards. Phil slumps back against one of the walls, watching the floor numbers tick by with a blank expression. Dan fixes his hair in the mirrored wall, watching Phil out of the corner of his eye. He takes a deep breath, turning back around and crowding into Phil’s space, his arms tucked between their chests and his forehead heavy on Phil’s shoulder.

 

“Dan?” Phil asks, surprised, bringing one hand up to card through Dan’s soft hair.

 

“You know, I’ve been doing some thinking,” Dan says, raising his head to look at Phil’s face.

 

“Don’t do that,” Phil counters playfully. Dan ignores him.

 

“And I’ve come to the conclusion,“ he whispers as he snakes one of his hands down Phil’s chest, hooking his thumb in Phil’s belt loop. He leans in as he speaks, until his nose is mere centimeters from Phil’s. “ – that I’m sober now, and nothing is stopping me from doing this.” One of Dan’s hands fist into Phil’s shirt, holding him still as Dan softly covers Phil’s lips with his own. Phil grins against Dan’s lips before melting into the kiss, bringing his hands down to rest on Dan’s waist.

 

The doors open with a ding on Phil’s floor and Dan leans back, lips parted and shining and eyes still closed. He blinks them open as Phil tugs him out of the elevator, stumbling slightly before catching his balance against the wall.

 

“Do you have anywhere you need to be for the next, oh, few hours?” Phil asks, wresting the stupid keycard into the hotel room door.

 

“Nope,” Dan says, popping the ‘p’ like Phil does, lounging back against the corridor wall.

 

“Great,” Phil grits out, finally managing to shove the door open. He pulls Dan inside, letting the heavy door fall shut with a thump behind them.

 

“I was thinking,” Phil breathes as he crowds Dan against the wall, nosing up against Dan’s neck.

 

“Oh, no, don’t do that,” Dan gasps out mockingly, shivering when Phil huffs out a warm chuckle against the sensitive skin of Dan’s neck.

 

“That we could make shitty hotel room coffee and talk about the universe and make out a lot for the next little while,” Phil says as he trails butterfly kisses up Dan’s jaw. Dan sighs.

 

“Yep, yep, sounds great, shitty coffee, universe, kisses, all sounds lov – mph!” Phil silences him with a kiss, giggling at Dan’s miffed expression.

 

“Hey, Phil,” Dan mumbles into the kiss some minutes later.

 

“Yeah?” Phil asks, breaking away with a soft sound, leaning down to nuzzle around Dan’s ear

 

“I need to use the bathroom.”

 

Phil leans back with a laugh, pushing Dan away. “And they say romance is dead!” he calls after the closed bathroom door. The door creaks open the slightest bit, Dan’s hand peeking into view. He raises his middle finger.

 

Phil snickers as he steps over to the crappy coffee machine the hotel provides, setting a mug underneath the nozzle and screwing around with the settings until he figures the stupid machine out. Dan reemerges moments later, walking over to Phil and resting his chin on Phil’s shoulder.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hello to you too,” Phil says, twisting his head around to peck Dan on the nose. Magenta dances across Dan’s cheeks again, and he ducks his head.

 

“You’re like a lighthouse, honestly,” Phil remarks, all but drowning a coffee in sugar. Dan accepts the cup with a pink-faced grin, folding himself cross-legged on the remade sheets.

 

_‘You’re my lighthouse in the tempest waves, follow your light and I’ll be saved. The wind and rain won’t get the best of me today…’_ Phil scrambles for a sheet of paper to write those lyrics down, ending with them scrawled on the complementary notepad the hotel provides.

 

“What’s that?” Dan asks, laying back on the pillows. Phil shrugs, waving the question away as he tucks the scrap of paper into the front pocket of his suitcase.

 

‘ _Oh, nothing Dan, just probably the basis of the next song, you know, no big deal, since I am the fucking front man anyways,’_ Phil’s always-helpful brain supplies. He shakes is off, plopping down in the armchair beside the desk.

 

“Nothing,” he says instead. “Just an idea I want to remember.

 

“Cool,” Dan says, and that’s all they say on the subject.

 

*

 

Dan fishes his vibrating phone from his pocket.

 

_1 new message_

 

He opens it.

 

_From Phil: miss u xx_

 

Dan turns around and smacks the back of Phil’s head.

 

“It has literally been thirty seconds since we’ve made eye contact, you spoon, keep it in your pants, Jesus.”

 

Phil pouts, turning around and sliding his arms around Dan’s waist.

 

“But where’s the fun in that?” he smirks, leaning in to brush his nose over Dan’s neck. Dan shoves him lightly.

 

“We live in the same city, Phil, it’s not as if you’re flying to fucking Antarctica for six months.”

 

“But it feels that way when I am without you,” Phil proclaims, sinking and swooning and just generally being an ass. Dan laughs, shoving him back upright.

 

“Fine,” Phil pouts, puckering his lips and leaning in. “One last kiss before you go?”

 

Dan rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he leans in to slide his lips against Phil’s again. Phil sighs happily and steps forward, slipping one hand into Dan’s back pocket and tucking the other into Dan’s waistband. Dan brings his hands up to Phil’s shoulders before realizing what the other is doing. He breaks away with a grin.

 

“You sneaky motherfucker,” he sighs, pecking Phil’s nose. “But I really have to go now.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Phil blows his bangs out of his face. “Text me when you’re on the train, yeah?”

 

“Send me nudes while I’m in the middle of a crowded station and I will end you, Lester,” Dan threatens, narrowing his eyes and pointing an accusing finger in Phil’s direction.

 

Phil rolls his eyes with a sigh. “Why do you have to ruin all of my fun?”

 

“Because I’m not sure I entirely trust you about this yet,” Dan jokes, but his eyes are warm. “I’ll text you. Bye, Phil.”

 

“Bye, Dan,” Phil whispers, waving as Dan climbs into his friend’s car and slams the door shut behind him.

 

Phil stares after the blinking tail lights as the car pulls away, before shaking his head and making his way back into the hotel.

 

“Hey, Ingrid?” he says into his phone. A muffled ‘yeah?’ answers him. “Do you have any times a studio will be free in the next couple of weeks? I kind of have a new album idea.”

 

*

 

_From Dan: omg phil winter is recording another single ASDFGHJKL_

_From Dan: phil_

_From Dan: pay attention to me_

_From Dan: phil_

_From Dan: come on_

_From Dan: im kind of freaking out here man come on_

_From Dan: fine_

_From Dan: ill go scream at someone else then_

_From Dan: (i love u)_

Phil snickers, reading the texts Dan had sent him while Phil was busy in the studio. He taps out a quick reply, turning back to the baby grand piano and sliding the headphones back over his ears.

 

Living his odd double life around Dan is actually much easier than Phil thought it would be. He smiles as he remembers how excited Dan had been when Winter Hart followed him on Twitter, gushing about it to an amused Phil for over an hour. There had been a handful of close calls, of course. Spending as much time as he did with Dan was bound to lead to some level of involvement in each other’s private business, but Phil had simply been able to play it off as something he was doing ‘for work’. Dan might look at him cross-eyed, but all Phil had to do was plead secrecy and Dan would leave the subject well enough alone.

 

Phil grimaces as the notes go sour, sighing heavily and starting again. He plays slowly, carefully, toeing the fine balance between giving himself over to the music, letting it simply stream through his fingertips, and keeping himself grounded in the technicalities of measures and beats and patterns.

 

“ _Treat you in the backseat, back street, bed sheets twisted up in shadowed halls. Sugar sweet_ – no, wait – _sugar sweet, off beat keep it indiscreet won’t you_ – no – _will you hate me for this rush?_ Bleargh –“ Phil groans, falling face-first onto the keys with a horrid sound. He jerks upright when the studio doors open, pivoting with wide eyes to stare at the intruder. Ingrid smiles and gives a small half-wave, and Phil instantly relaxes, sliding the headphones off and stretching as he stands.

 

“Hey Ingrid.” He groans when his back pops, rolling his head and shoulders to try and rid them of the tension sitting at a piano for three hours straight had caused.

 

“Hey Phil,” she replies, stepping into the room and sitting down on the swivel chair kept behind the drum set. “I got an offer. Well – you got an offer, I’m just the messenger.” She doesn’t meet Phil’s eyes.

 

“Ingrid…” Phil’s brow knits together in confusion and he tilts his head. “What’s going on…?”

 

“You’ve been offered a gig,” Ingrid says softly. Phil heart stops, then picks up at twice the pace. “You’re kidding.”

 

“Not in the slightest,” Ingrid informs him.

 

“Why didn’t you just tell whoever my normal thing? No press, no signings, no meets, no shows?”

 

“Because, well, this one is a little bit different.” Ingrid locks eyes with Phil. “It’s Wembley. You’ve been offered the main stage act at Wembley Stadium, Phil.”

 

If Phil hadn’t been sitting down before, he would have now.

 

“It’s not even April, Ingrid.” Phil tries for a smile, but suspects he looks more like a cornered rodent than a sane and approachable human being.

 

“And this isn’t a joke.” Ingrid stands up.

 

“I completely respect you Phil, and everything you do and everything you’ve done. I just thought you’d like to at least hear this offer. I’m not going to hate you if you do or don’t do this, but as your agent I thought you should know. From a purely professional standpoint, this can be nothing but amazing. Wembley seats ninety _thousand_ people, Phil, and I would put money down that you could sell this thing out. But that’s just the logistics. If you, you, Philip Michael Lester, do not want to do this, I will hold nothing against you. I will tell the nice man on the phone to politely fuck off, and never speak of this again.” She walks over to lay a hand on Phil’s shoulder, which is hunched under the pressure. “I may be your manager, Phil, but I’m your friend before that. I want you to do what you want. Keep to the shadows if that what you want, or if you finally think it’s time to show your face, then I will do everything I can to support you.”

 

A high, reedy ring tells Phil that Ingrid has a pending call. She straightens up. “Just consider it, Phil. At least.” Phil half-smirks. “Are you asking as my friend or as my manager?”

 

“Both.” With that and one final smile, Ingrid is gone, strutting down the hallway and yelling into her earpiece about some new band Kyle wanted to bring in. Phil sighs, turning back to the keyboard and tentatively placing his hands right above the keys, ready to play.

 

He lets them fall to his sides with a groan, laying his head down on the lip of the instrument and closing his eyes. His head is spinning. ‘ _Fucking Wembley,’_ is his first and foremost thought. And his second and third and fourth and fifth.

 

“Fucking _Wembley_ ,” he says aloud, testing the sound in the empty room. The guitars say nothing back, not that Phil is really expecting them to be good conversationalists. He had put the trombones down as better talkers long ago, the guitars probably landing somewhere above the drums and below the kazoos on the hierarchy of musical instruments in conversations. Phil shakes his head as his train of thought derails spectacularly down that path, trying to bring his focus back to the more pressing concern at hand.

 

“Fucking Wembley,” he says again. The guitars remain silent.

 

*

 

“Phiiil?” Dan calls from back in Phil’s bedroom. Phil takes out one earbud, slouching down into the couch and propping his laptop better on his knees. “Whaat?”

 

“Is there a reason you have glitter all over the floor in here?” Dan asks. Phil bites his lip, thinking.

 

“No?”

 

‘Then why the fuck is it here?”

 

“I was… decorating?”

 

“Bullshit.” Dan pops up in the doorway to the living room, holding a half-empty container of blue glitter.

 

Phil keeps his eyes glued to his computer screen, still typing away. He turns the screen away from Dan when he walks nearer, not letting his boyfriend of now three weeks see the screen.

 

“Noo, I wanna know what you’re doing,” Dan whines, the pot of glitter all but forgotten in his hand. Phil shakes his head.

 

“Important work emails you aren’t allowed to see.”

 

“I think that was actually Twitter.”

 

“No, it’s important work emails that you can’t see. You just think it’s Twitter because I may or may not be procrastinating. I mean, it’s because of the secret algorithm that doesn’t let anyone but me and Lion see the contents of my important work emails that you are not allowed to look at.”

 

Dan giggles, climbing over the back of the couch and sliding not-so-smoothly into Phil’s lap. Phil groans when Dan elbows him in the stomach.

 

“Pay attention to meee,” Dan whines, wriggling in Phil’s lap until he is comfortable. Phil tries to rest his laptop on Dan’s shoulder, still typing. Dan wiggles again.

 

Phil laughs. “One, you are doing a brilliant impression of a snake giving birth, and two, can I just finish this one important work email that you are not allowed to see? We can have sex after, I promise.”

 

“Not even what I was shooting for, but hey, I’ll take it,” Dan says, pushing himself off of Phil’s lap with probably more crotch-touching than strictly necessary. He reaches into his back pocket, entering his phone’s passcode and swiping a few times.

 

“Six minutes. I’m counting,” Dan warns as he steps back to the bedroom. Phil smiles, going back to composing his – rather, Winter Hart’s – tweet.

 

‘ _Hey guys, so I’m-‘_ “Nope,” Phil mutters under his breath as he deletes it.

_‘So I’m going to be doing a show-‘_ “No.”

 

_‘I’ll be performing-‘_ “No.”

_‘so im doing a show or something-‘_ “God, no.”

_‘ANNOUNCING THE FIRST EVER LIVE WINTER HART CONCERT. YES THIS IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING. NO I CANT BELIEVE IT EITHER. GET TIX NOW.’_ Phil considers it for a moment, before nodding and pasting the info link.

 

“Queue to post in –“ he checks the clock, “- two minutes.” A few more clicks and it is done.

 

‘ _Winter Hart is going to be live in concert,’_ Phil’s brain supplies, still not quite able to fully process exactly the extent of what that means.

 

‘ _Yeah, and ‘Winter Hart’ is you, you dumb shit,’_ his brain answers itself. _‘And Wembley seats ninety thousand. And Ingrid said you’re probably going to sell out. No pressure or anything.’_

_‘Whatever. You still have like a month to plan for this, it’ll be okay.’_

 

“Am I really just talking to myself here?” Phil asks himself out loud.

 

‘ _Yeah, I guess I am. Huh. Weird.’_

 

Phil shrugs, walking down the short hallway and into his bedroom. Dan is laying on his bed shirtless, scrolling through something on his phone. He barely glances up when Phil comes in, simply keeps moving his thumb.

 

‘ _Any second now,’_ Phil thinks. He knows Dan has Winter Hart on Twitter notifications. He climbs onto the bed, straddling Dan’s thighs and running his fingers up Dan’s sides when Dan’s phone dings.

 

Dan’s eyes are growing comically wider as he reads Winter’s tweet, until he looks up at Phil with huge eyes and a his mouth fixed into a silent scream.

 

“Do you know what this means?” Dan yells as he drops his phone, gripping Phil’s shoulders and shaking him back and forth. Phil bounces around, laughing.

 

“What? What does what mean?” he asks, gripping the headboard to steady himself.

 

Dan meanwhile is freaking out underneath him, spasming and flailing and making odd, breathy noises with a huge grin.

 

“Winter Hart!”

 

“What about them?” Phil asks, shifting his knees and leaning down to pepper tiny kisses along Dan’s neck and collar.

 

“In fucking concert!” Phil glances up, confused, playing along.

 

“But Winter never shows his face?”

 

“I know?” Dan bubbles excitedly. “I have no idea, but it is great and we are going – _oh my god we are going_ I am buying tickets right now. Clear your calendar.” He picks up his phone again, swatting at Phil who tries to kiss him. “Priorities, man, keep it together. We can have awesome sex later, I _need_ to get these fucking tickets.”

 

Phil supposes he would feel slightly miffed if it wasn’t tickets to see him that Dan was talking about. As it is, he simply slides off Dan with a laugh, fetching his laptop from the living room and bringing back for Dan to use.

 

Dan mumbles a thank you, opening his Twitter and finding the link Winter posted about his show. He clicks on it, bringing up the page. He had to bite down on his fingers to muffle another shriek.

 

“Oh my god, oh my god, Winter is gonna be in concert. Oh my god, I am dead you don’t even know,” Dan sings under his breath, making up a stupid little tune as he goes along. Phil laughs, settling behind Dan and resting his chin on Dan’s shoulder.

 

“Should I feel offended that you’re blowing off sex to buy concert tickets?”

 

Dan flaps a hand to silence him.

 

“Wait, wait, wait, free tickets?” Phil says, pointing over Dan’s shoulder at a tab at the top of the page. Dan clicks on it, bringing him to another screen.

 

“Ten lucky fans will win two front-row tickets and two VIP passes to meet the man behind it all, Winter Hart,” Dan reads, his voice growing higher with every word. “Text ‘have a hart’ to 52379 to enter for your chance to win! Entrance ends August 16th, 3 pm GMT, and winners will be messaged back with their coupon number an hour later.’ August 16th! That’s a week from now.” Phil has the message and number entered on Dan’s phone before Dan even finishes reading. He hands the phone forward to Dan, and grins when he hits the send button.

 

“Hope you win,” Phil says, placing a kiss on the juncture of Dan’s neck and shoulders.

 

“So do I,” Dan says, poking around on the website a little more. “Front row tickets are a hundred thirty pounds, and those plus VIP come out to almost three hundred pounds. I love the guy to death but that seems a bit extensive.”

 

“Maybe it’s just to try and deter people from really coming and trying to meet him,” Phil suggests, still ghosting kisses over Dan’s exposed skin. “He likes keeping to his own, so the passes being more expensive is maybe because he doesn’t just want to be completely stormed by teenage girls with no sense of personal respect. He’s not explicitly prohibiting people form going to meet him, but it is definitely deterring people from it.”

 

Dan cocks his head to the side. “Huh. Yeah, you do have a point.” He twists around, intercepting Phil’s lips with his own.

 

“So, you said something about awesome sex?”

 

Phil giggles. “Horny bastard.”

 

“Yep,” Dan grins, biting Phil’s bottom lip and tugging. “But you love me anyways.”

 

“I really think I do,” Phil mumbles back, and then his lips are being utilized for matters more pressing than conversation.

 

*

 

“Hey Ingrid,” Phil grins, tossing her office door open and striding in. He makes himself comfortable on the comfy chair reserved specifically for clients, throwing his legs over the side and curling in on the pillow clutched to his chest. Ingrid sighs in exasperation, spinning in her desk chair to face Phil. He blinks back with huge doe eyes, remaining silent with a trembling half-smile pasted on his lips.

 

Ingrid gazes softly to the man in front of her: His self-protective posture, the jagged edges of his bitten nails, the twitching of his left foot that Ingrid knows is a nervous tic, and she sighs again, standing up and pushing her stylish glasses onto the top of her head before walking over to settle herself in the chair beside Phil’s.

 

“Sweetheart,” she murmurs, gathering his head awkwardly into her arms and petting through his hair. Phil sniffles lightly, burying his face in her comforting smell.

 

“It’s just so _big_ ,” he whimpers, bringing a hand up to rub at his nose. “It’s so big and it’s so much and it’s all going way too fast and I’m scared, Ingrid, I really am. I’m downright _terrified_.” He’s crying, hot drops spilling over his eyelids and tracking down his cheeks.

 

“Phil,” Ingrid whispers soothingly. “What are you scared about?”

 

“Everything,” Phil mumbles brokenly.

 

“Okay,” Ingrid reasons gently. “What are you thinking could go wrong?”

 

“Everything,” Phil mumbles again. Ingrid remains silent. Phil sighs.

 

“I’m scared that I’ll fall off the stage. I’m scared that I’ll forget the words. I’m scared that people will hate me for ‘selling out’ and doing a huge show. I’m scared that someone will recognize me. I’m especially scared that Dan will never be able to forgive me for keeping something this big from him,” he rushes out in one breath.

 

“Phil,” Ingrid whispers again. “You know that you won’t fall off the stage. You know these lyrics and chords better than how to spell your own name. People might say negative things about you, thinking that you’re ‘selling out’, but sweetie, someone’s going to say something negative about you if you sneeze. That’s the price of fame, and I know you’ve been avoiding it for so long, but maybe you’re just ready to be out there. You know no one is going to recognize you, Phil. No one but me and David know who you are, and you’ve made sure Phil Lester is in no way associated with Winter. And lastly, I know that Dan won’t hate you for this, okay? That boy looks at you like you hung the stars and the moon. He might not fully understand your reasoning for the first little while, but he’s a kind, smart, loving and compassionate boy. He’ll come around, I’m sure of it.”

 

Phil smiles lightly as Ingrid finishes her little speech, wiping his dripping eyes on his jumper sleeve. “Yeah,” he says, to no one in particular. “Yeah. Okay.”

 

“Yeah?” Ingrid asks. Phil nods. “Good.” She gives him another little squeeze, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Do you want to start planning your show, or not yet?”

 

“No. Yeah, I’m good. We can talk about it,” Phil says, disentangling himself from Ingrid’s grip and sitting up cross-legged in the chair. “I’m thinking fireworks and glitter. Lots and lots of glitter.”

 

*

 

Phil is rudely woken up but a pounding on his front door and muffled yells of his name. He sits up, groaning, and checks the time on his laptop. Four-fifteen in the afternoon. He must have fallen asleep while working.

 

He quickly checks that he has no incriminating files open on his desktop, before standing and stretching. The pounding on his door increases in frequency.

 

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, I’m coming!” Phil hollers, ruffling his hair into some semblance of presentable before throwing the door open to a crazy-grinning Dan, who keeps knocking fiercely against Phil’s chest when the door moves.

 

“Oww,” Phil groans, rubbing his ribs and stepping back to let Dan in. Dan bounces over the threshold, dancing like a fool as Phil watches with a fond smile.

 

“Do I get to know what you’re so happy about or do I have to guess?” Phil asks, leaning back against the closed door with a yawn. Dan keeps wiggling his hips, still grinning stupidly.

 

“I won! I got it! I got the fucking tickets! I’m meeting Winter Hart I’m dying now I’m dead!” Dan sings, kicking into the air. He fixes Phil with a flushed look, smile so wide Phil’s surprised his face doesn’t split in two. His eyes are shimmering and he looks happier than Phil’s seen him in a long time.

 

“You’re so excited about this, damn,” Phil observes with a grin, mooching over to Dan and wrapping his arms around the younger’s waist. “I’m so happy for you!”

 

“Me too!” Dan bubbles, still unable to fully grasp the fact that _oh holy shit he’s going to see Winter_ fucking _Hart live in concert from up close and then get to meet him oh sweet baby Jesus his body is not ready._

Dan leans in and lets out a silent shriek against the pale skin of Phil’s neck, vibrating with excitement. “I think I’m gonna throw up,” he says, still deliriously giddy.

 

Phil pulls back in alarm. “Just not on the carpet, okay?”

 

 Dan nods, capturing Phil’s mouth in a hot, messy, uncoordinated kiss, buzzing against his lips.

 

“I’m going to meet Winter fucking Hart,” he says again. Phil grins back.

 

‘ _What will you say if I tell you you already have?’_ he wonders silently, already moving in to kiss Dan again. If Dan does end up leaving him over this secret, Phil wants to have as many memories as possible.

 

*

 

“Phil! Your glitter epidemic is getting out of hand!” Dan hollers from Phil’s – well, more accurately _their_ at this point – office. “I know that you don’t always seem 100% flaming homosexual, but glitter is just overkill by this point!”

 

Phil silently curses himself, locking his phone and sliding it into his jean’s pocket before walking back to the office to find Dan sprawled on the couch in there, half-occupied by the thick packet of legal papers scattered next to him and half by the container of glitter he found on the desk. Phil snorts, walking over and plucking the shiny blue container out of Dan’s hand.

 

“My arts-and-crafts habits that I do in my own house on my own time are none of your concern, _Daniel_ ,” Phil defends, dropping the container in one of the desk drawers and pushing it shut. Dan pouts, rolling over and picking up another yellow sheet.

 

“Dear god I do not care in the slightest,” he bites with surprising venom, flinging a thin book with a cracking leather cover across the room, where it thumps into the wall. Phil rubs the dark mark the book left on the wall with a sigh, picking up the book itself and walking over to sit down on the couch next to his boyfriend. Dan curls his long legs up to his chest to make room for Phil.

 

“What’s wrong?” Phil asks, shifting papers and books and notes out of the way as Dan turns around to lay his head on Phil’s lap.

 

“I just _don’t care_ ,” Dan hisses, pushing a book off the couch with his toe. “I really don’t care. About law. About my degree. About pleasing my parents, at this point. I don’t care about my crappy internship, my shittier job, just, any of it.” His breath hitches on a sigh, deflated and sad and angry by all of the emotions flitting through his system.

 

“Quit, then,” Phil says simply, playing with Dan’s brown hair, which was unusually curly today. “Drop your degree. Drop your internship. Drop your job. Move out.”

 

Dan snorts, rubbing his eyes with one of his hands before tucking it under his chin. “Yeah, and then what? Live broke and on the streets?”

 

“Move in with me.”

 

Dan blinks. “What?”

 

“Move in with me,” Phil says again. Dan turns to look up at him, eyebrow raised.

 

“Okay, but then how do I pay – “

 

“I make enough money to support two people, Dan,” Phil cuts in. Dan’s eyebrow climbs higher. “I can show you proof, but just trust me on this. If you wanted to, I could easily pay your way for however long you needed until you found what you wanted to do, or study, or pursue.”

 

Dan just stares up at Phil, mouth agape. Phil offers a half-smile back.

 

“I’m not trying to pressure you into anything, Dan, and you don’t have to answer me now or even ever if you don’t want to. But my offer stands, and always wi-“

 

“Yes.”

 

Now it’s Phil’s turn to blink uncomprehendingly.

 

“Yes I want to move in with you,” Dan clarifies, smiling tentatively and sitting up. “I’m trusting that you aren’t lying about being able to support the both of us, and yes I would like proof but also, I want to do it.”

 

Phil smiles, leaning in for a kiss.

 

“I’m quitting school tomorrow,” Dan announces, pulling back from Phil with a wet noise.

 

“Good for you, Bear,” Phil says, bringing a hand up to cup Dan’s cheek. He presses a kiss to Dan’s nose. “I’m proud of you, Dan. Do what you want to do, okay?” He stands up, extending his hands and pulling Dan to his feet.

 

“Now go and put on some of my nice clothes, okay? I’m taking you out to dinner.” Dan’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth to protest, but Phil silences him with another kiss. “Not buts. Just let me do this for you, okay?”

 

“But you’re already doing so much,” Dan mumbles, almost too quiet for Phil to hear.

 

Phil smiles softly against Dan’s cheek. “Yeah. I’m in this thing called love, and it’s making me want to give you the world and then some.”

 

“The only problem with dating a poet,” Dan says, sighing dramatically to the ceiling. “Is that they take the best pickings of words and leave me with but scraps to compare.”

 

“Says the guy who can bust out Shakespeare at the drop of a hat.”

 

“Touché.” Dan disentangles himself from Phil with a smile.

 

“Come on,” Phil whispers, ghosting his lips over Dan’s. “Go get dressed. We’ll leave in about forty minutes, okay?” Dan nods, leaning in for a real kiss before stepping back and out of the room.

 

Phil’s knees seem to give out and he drops onto the couch with a heavy sigh, running his hands over his face.

 

He tries to ignore the look of alarm Dan throws his way hours later when he puts his credit card down for a meal check of near two hundred pounds without a single thought.

 

*

 

“You’re taking me for drinks tonight,” is the first thing Ingrid says to him as Phil crosses the threshold of their meeting room. He cocks his head in confusion, sitting down in one of the comfortable spinning chairs scattered around the too-large conference table that takes up the entire room.

 

“Winter Hart fucking sold out in a week and a half. _Sold out_ in _eleven_ days Phil. Do you realize how huge this is? This is _world-record_ scale huge.”

 

Phil’s jaw falls open with an audible pop. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

 

“Not in the slightest,” Ingrid says with a grin, turning her laptop to face Phil. He sees his website, specifically the huge, red letters spelling ‘sold out’ gracing the tickets page.

 

“Oh my god,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper. “Oh my god.”

 

“Oh my god is probably about right,” Ingrid says squealing with excitement and sitting in the chair to Phil’s right. “Do you know how huge this is?” she asks, gripping one of Phil’s hands. “’Cause this is huge.”

 

“Yeah, it is,” Phil says, still barely able to comprehend it. He opens his phone and logs into Winter’s Twitter.

 

‘ _y’all just sold out my show in 11 days. I don’t know whether to love you or hate you (I’m crying btw) xx’_

He slides his phone back into his pocket, still staring at the numbers on the laptop screen.

 

“Well, fuck.”

 

Ingrid hums, letting Phil take a moment to process it all.

 

“So, to get down to business,” she says eventually, spinning her laptop to face herself and poising her fingers over the keys. “What else we got?”

 

“Well I think I have a set list mostly complete, I mean I know I at least want to do Not So Straight to Hell, and I’ve called a few guys who would be open to being instrumentals on stage…”

 

*

 

“Two weeks till the day of the Winter Hart concert,” Dan sings, flopping onto Phil’s lap over the back of the couch. Phil forces a bark of laughter, scolding his hands to stop their shaking. _‘Don’t remind me.’_

 

“Yeah, I’m looking forward to it,” he mumbles instead, keeping his stare fixed on the bad actors being torn limb from limb on the screen in front of him. Dan glances at Phil’s choice of movie and makes a face. “I can’t believe you watch that stuff on your free time. You really don’t strike me as the type to enjoy shitty horror movies.”

 

“And you don’t strike me as they type to watch _‘The Notebook’_ and cry into cookies he baked himself when he thinks his boyfriend won’t be home for another two hours. People really surprise you sometimes.”

 

Dan steals an Oreo out of the package on the coffee table and sticks his tongue out as a form of response.

 

The two boys finish the movie in silence, Dan’s head on Phil lap and the elder’s fingers carding through his hair. The Netflix home screen pops up and Phil slides out from under Dan, repositioning himself on his hands and knees hovering over the boy. Dan cracks one eye open, grinning. Phil simply stares back, leaning down to attack Dan’s neck with nips and kisses. Dan’s satisfied smile turns to a dropped jaw, lips hanging open shiny and spit-slicked.

 

“Phil? While I’m not complaining, what’s with the – ah! – the sudden, uhh-” Dan starts, trailing off into a hitching sigh when Phil’s hot fingers slip into the waistband of his sweatpants and start to inch them down.

 

“I love you,” Phil says, staring intensely into Dan’s eyes.

 

“Can we get that on recording? All of my friends think you’re just my sugar daddy, I’d love to prove them wrong.”

 

Phil shakes his head with a frustrated noise, ducking down to try and convey his feelings through a searing kiss, pulling back seconds later with heavy breath and numb lips.

 

“Okay,” Dan says slowly once he regains at least baseline brain function. “I-I love you too, okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Phil says, pressing his forehead to the crook of Dan’s neck and squeezing his eyes shut. “Keep that in mind.”

 

“Do we need to talk, Phil?” Dan asks. “Because you sound like you have something to say.”

 

“No, no talking,” Phil says, licking his way down Dan’s collar. “Just – let me?” He’s looking up at Dan, Dan’s fingers tangled into his hair and keeping their gazes locked. Dan feels like he’s _naked_ , like Phil can see right through every lie he’s ever told and every thought he’s had but never said. It’s scaring him a little.

 

“Yeah,” he agrees, slowly letting go of Phil’s hair. “Okay.”

 

“Thank you,” Phil mumbles against tanned skin, and Dan is gone to the world outside of Phil for the next few hours.

 

*

 

“Ingrid?” Phil says when she picks up, voice low because Dan is just on the other side of his bedroom wall. “I have something I want to add to the show.”

 

Ingrid makes an indecent spluttering noise over the phone, and Phil is pretty sure he just heard her throw something.

 

“Yes _princess_ , what can I do you for?” she asks, clearly exasperated. Phil grins.

 

“I, uh, wrote a new song last night - ”

 

“I’ll get right on mailing you your medal.”

 

“ - That I want to play at the end of the show.”

 

Ingrid is silent over the line.

 

“I need to, Ingrid. For Dan.”

 

She’s silent a moment longer before she sighs, probably throwing her hands up in the air if Phil knows anything about her.

 

“Email me sheet music, I’ll send it to the musicians,” she finally replies, already typing away on her keyboard.

 

“Thank you Ingrid,” Phil whispers, opening his laptop.

 

“Of course, Phil. But no more changes after this or I will actually have to murder you and just get a stand in to be you for the rest of all eternity.”

 

Phil giggles. “Love you too, Ingrid.”

 

“You make my life a living hell,” she deadpans back, and the line cuts off.

 

*

 

“I’m so excited! The concert is _today_ Phil, holy shit I don’t think you understand exactly what this means!” Dan babbles, happily spooning mouthful after mouthful of cereal he isn’t really tasting into his mouth. “It’s just all I’ve been able to think about! I mean, I usually get excited over concerts no matter who is playing, but he’s just so special to me and he’s like, never done anything like this before, you know, and it’s just so big?”

 

Phil doesn’t respond, instead staring fixedly down at the light swirls of milk he hasn’t yet bothered to stir into his coffee.

 

“Phil? You still with me?” Dan asks, snapping a few times in front of Phil’s nose. Phil startles, jumping slightly in his chair and blinking up at Dan, confused. His hands are trembling from nerves.

 

“Y-yeah,” he mumbles, trying to pick his coffee mug up and bring it to his lips without shaking too badly. Dan does notice however, and cocks an eyebrow. “You okay?”

 

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, fine, fine. Totally fine, Dan.” Phil is sure his smile is terribly unnatural, stretched and distorted past the point of recognizable as human emotion. Dan reaches out to pry Phil’s mug from shaking fingers, setting it down gently. “Let’s call it quits on the caffeine, yeah?” he suggests in a soft tone, placing the back of his hand on Phil’s forehead.

 

“What are you doing?” Phil mumbles, going cross-eyed to try and focus on Dan’s hand. Dan flushes crimson and retracts his hand, shrugging. “My mum would always do that to me when I wasn’t feeling well, I don’t know. Are you tired? Do you want me to get you something to eat? Do you want to lay down?”

 

Phil rolls his eyes playfully. “Alright _mum_ , calm down. I’m feeling fine, Dan.” Dan’s eyebrows knit together and he pouts. Phil almost wants to admit everything right then and there, everything about being Winter Hart and his job and _all of it_ , but he bites his lips and stares down into his lap instead.

 

‘ _Fucking anxiety_ ,’ his brain supplies, to which Phil can only agree.

 

“You know what,” he says, pushing himself up from the table. “I’m actually going to go lie down for a bit.” He turns quickly, making obvious the fact that he isn’t offering cuddles. Dan simply watches him leave, fiddling with his fingers on the table at a total loss. He hears Phil’s door close and lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and stands up himself.

 

‘ _Might as well do something useful with myself for the afternoon_ ,’ Dan muses as he starts to do the dishes, completely ignoring the overwhelming part of him that wants nothing more then to run to Phil, bury himself in his warmth and never let go. _Jesus_ Dan is so far gone.

 

*

 

Dan stands in front of Phil’s door, gnawing on his thumbnail and entirely unsure of what to do. _Does he wake Phil to take him to the concert? Does he give the tickets away and stay home with Phil? Does he let Phil sleep and see if he can bring another friend?_ Dan groans quietly and settles for knocking lightly, edging the door open.

 

“Phil?” he whisper-calls into the dark of the room. “Phil, baby, you okay?”

 

A muffled moan is the only reply the tangled lump of bed sheets provide, and Dan winces.

 

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” he says as he makes his way through the dark room to sit on the edge of the bed, stroking Phil’s shoulder.

 

“Fuck, what time is it?” Phil groans, suddenly shooting straight up. “Fuck! Is it passed time for the concert?”

 

“No,” Dan says, gently easing Phil back down onto his back. “That’s what I was coming in to talk to you about, actually.” Phil groans again, rolling over and burying his face in Dan’s lap.

 

“I’m sorry sweetheart, but I think you’ll need to find someone else to go with you.” He sniffles again to prove his point.

 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you?” Dan asks, once again reverting to his overly-protective mum personality.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me? Miss out on Six Season’s first and quite possibly last live performance that you have _VIP access_ to just because I have the fucking sniffles? Oh _hell_ no. Call a friend, go to that concert, and have the most fun of your _life_ Dan, okay? You aren’t going to miss out on all of that just to watch lame old me sleep off a little fever.”

 

“Are you sure?” Dan asks. Phil rolls his eyes.

 

“Come on. You might as well go with someone more exciting anyways, I would just be there like a wet blanket.”

 

“Fuck you, you nerd,” Dan says, punching Phil’s shoulder lightly. Phil smiles. They’re okay.

 

“Go on. Call Chris or PJ or the fucking queen or whoever, I don’t care, and then go get dressed. Just turn off the light when you leave me here to die,” Phil says dramatically, flopping over and throwing one arm over his eyes. Dan rolls his eyes, leaning down to peck Phil gently on the forehead before standing up.

 

“Hey Dan?” Phil calls as Dan reaches the doorway. Dan stops, but doesn’t turn around. “I love you.”

 

Even though it’s dark and his back is turned, Phil knows Dan is smiling. “I know. Love you too, loser.” The door shuts with a click, and Phil is thrown back into total darkness.

 

*

 

Dan just left the flat. Phil listens for a few more minutes, making sure the sounds he heard were Dan really locking the door and leaving, before he crawls out of bed. Dan left early to go out to dinner with Chris before the concert, giving Phil unexpected – but welcome – extra time. Phil showers in probably record time for him, and throws on his regular black jeans and a t-shirt, slipping into his favorite beat up red sneakers. His stage outfit is at the venue, and they’ll do his hair once he gets there, so he doesn’t worry about it.

 

He steps into the damp London air, hailing the first cab he sees and slipping into the back seat. “Wembley stadium,” he tells the cab driver, a friendly, greying man, who nods and pulls away from the curb.

 

“Going to that huge concert tonight?” the cabbie asks, looking at Phil through the review mirror. Phil nods, smiling. “Yeah. I’m actually one of the techies, so I’ll be backstage and stuff.”

 

“Yeah? My daughter is really into the band performing, Winter Hart, right?” Phil nods again, silently cursing his bouncing leg.

 

“Oh nice. Is she going to be there tonight too?” he asks.

 

“Indeed she is. Been talking my ear off about it for the past month, I tell you,” the cabbie says with a chuckle. Phil giggles along.

 

“Actually, would you mind telling me your daughter’s name?” Phil asks. His driver grins amicably. “Amanda. Amanda Lawson.”

 

“Thanks,” Phil says, leaning back in his seat. He remains silent for the rest of the trip, paying the cabbie with a warm smile and twenty-pound tip. “Thank you for the ride, Mr. Lawson.” The cabbie tips his hat. “Have fun tonight, son.” Phil slams the door and the cab pulls away, blending in with all of the other cars on the street. Phil half smiles to himself, straightens his jacket, and pushes open the small side door.

 

Tonight is going to be memorable, at the very least.

 

*

 

“Phil, this is my sister Lexis, Lexis, this is Phil,” Ingrid says, pointing to a small woman who looks remarkably like herself, except with thick toffee hair and a light dusting of freckles over her nose.

 

“Nice to meet you,” Phil mumbles, staring down at his shoes.

 

“Likewise,” Lexis offers with a grin.

 

“Phil, Lexis will be your beautifier and basically PA while I’m rounding up the rest of these ass masters,” Ingrid says, not even looking up from the scrawled notes on her clipboard. She fiddles with her earpiece and makes an annoyed noise, jotting something else down in her loopy handwriting. “All of the crew has been personally screened by me: They will not try to photograph you, harass you, ask your identity, nothing, under threat of physical harm and basically never being allowed back into the industry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a screwy light technician to yell at.” She whirls out of the room in a flurry of messy auburn curls and stylish heels, the door clicking shut behind her. Phil blinks at where she was just standing, stunned.

 

“Yeah, she can be a bit of a hurricane sometimes,” Lexis comments, fiddling with the assortment of things on the vanity. Phil snorts. “Don’t worry, I’ve been at the front of a few of those storms.”

 

“I personally just feel sorry for the technician,” Lexis says with a grin, patting the chair in front of the mirror. “We should probably get started.” Phil makes a vague sound of assent, plodding over to slouch into the makeup chair. Lexis spins him around to face her, poking his shoulder so he’ll sit up straight.

 

“So I’m thinking we’ll do hair up like this,” Lexis thinks aloud, pushing Phil’s hair around to her liking. Phil huffs in surprise when she leans _over his head_ to reach something on the counter top, the position shoving his face into her chest.

 

“I have a boyfriend!” Phil squeaks when she leans back out of his face. She looks puzzled for a split second, and then she gets it and laughs, long and loud.

 

“Oh god, I’m so sorry! That wasn’t a come on, I promise.” Phil’s furious blush doesn’t fade a fraction of a degree.

 

“I’m ace, Phil, you have nothing to be afraid of,” Lexis says with a smile, pushing her fingers coated in some cold substance through Phil’s hair. “I’m not going to try to steal you away from your man.”

 

“Oh,” Phil says, cheeks still hot. “Um, sorry then?”

 

“No no no, I’m the one who’s sorry,” Lexis insists, drawing a comb across Phil’s scalp. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

 

“It’s okay,” Phil says, closing his eyes. “Mostly just panicked there for a second, sorry.”

 

“Completely understandable. Close – oh.” Lexis covers Phil’s eyes and sprays his hair, touching it up in a few places before deeming it acceptable and moving on to his face.

 

“So tell me about him, then,” Lexis says, drawing a pale foundation brush across Phil’s cheeks. “This man of yours.”

 

“Dan? He’s just the sweetest little thing,” Phil gushes, smiling brightly. “He’s adorable and sexy at the same time and he smiles really big and laughs super loud and I just love him with all my heart.”

 

“He sounds amazing,” Lexis says with a soft smile, still powdering Phil’s face.

 

“We met at my best friend’s wedding, where he DJ’ed and played one of my songs.”

 

“Oh? So he knows then?”

 

Phil shakes his head, earning a scolding sound from Lexis.

  
“You’re the only person other than your sister, one of my producers, and my parents who knows,” he says quietly. “He’ll be finding out tonight. Hopefully. I think.”

 

“Well, I am honored then to be the fifth person who knows the man behind the mask,” Lexis jokes, gesturing Phil to look up so she can paint black on his lids under his eyes.

 

“Ta da,” Phil says with half-hearted jazz hands. “The big reveal.”

 

Lexis’ lips twitch up and she finishes Phil’s face in silence.

 

“Mask time,” she says once she’s done, having taken a step back to admire her work.

 

The mask Phil has chosen for his public reveal is elegant, an ivory Venetian one. It covers around his eyes, curving over the bridge of his nose and down to rest on his cheekbones. Abstract swirls painted in iridescent black slide across the piece, as if flung on by a paintbrush. In short, it’s sexy as hell and Phil loves it.

 

He keeps his head down as Lexis ties it on, turning how she directs him to and keeping his eyes closed.

 

“Open,” she murmurs, and Phil looks up.

 

The person staring back from the mirror is most definitely not Phil Lester.

 

Whatever it was Lexis put into his hair made it positively _white,_ styled into a pale platinum quiff with sparkles mixed in that shimmer when he moves in the light. The contacts she put in turned his eyes silver, a complement to the mask, and whatever she had used on his skin made him _even paler_ , which Phil had not previously thought possible.

 

“Oh my god,” he whispers, bringing a hand up to his mouth. He blinks, the contacts feeling thicker and more awkward than his usual ones.

 

“May I introduce you to Winter Hart,” Lexis says softly, smiling at Phil through the mirror. He spins around and hugs her, hard.

 

“Oh my god,” he whispers again, running his fingertips over his own face, turning and marveling at himself in the mirror.

 

“Basically,” Lexis agrees with a smile. Her phone rings and she scrambles to fish it out of her pocket.

 

“’Ello?” she says, pressing the phone to her ear. The person down the line says something, and Lexis makes a noise of assent. “Got it Ingrid. Yeah we’re ready.” She hangs up and slides the phone back into her pocket. “Ready to meet the rest of your band?”

 

*

 

“Elliot, Michael, Gabe, and Jem. Play nice,” Ingrid shouts as she pushes the four men into the room and leaves again. The tallest of the new arrivals – still shorter than Phil, mind, but tall by normal standards – tanned, broad-shouldered with a shaggy mop of curly hair and sparking green eyes sticks out a hand. “Elliot,” he says in a deep, musical voice. Phil grips his hand, shaking it firmly. “Winter,” he says with a sly grin.

 

The three other men introduce themselves. Gabe is bouncing with excitement or nerves, Phil can’t quite tell, his lanky frame and big hands making him seem like a teenager permanently stuck in his ‘awkward limbs’ stage. His dark hair is short in the back but longer on the top of his head, a barely-there sheen of stubble adding texture to his otherwise monochrome pale face. Lexis hustles him into the chair first, beginning to work on his hair despite his rather vocal protests.

 

“Let me see,” Phil says, clasping his hands together in front of his mouth. The mask and makeup are making him feel like a different person, more confident and established. He subconsciously straightens his posture and lowers his shoulders. “Drummer, bassist, guitar, guitar,” he says, pointing to Jem, Elliot, Michael and Gabe respectively. Jem raises his eyebrows, cracking his knuckles with a grin. “How’d you guess?”

 

“You see, Jem,” Phil says, smirking down at the shorter man, noticing darker tattoos smattered over dark skin. “I am secretly a wizard.” He throws up jazz hands for effect, giggling at himself.

 

“I knew it,” Jem says with a laugh, striding over to the rack of clothes. He flicks through them, making appreciative noises.

 

“I see a lot of leather,” he calls, turning back around with a grin. “So, Winter, how are we going to do this?”

 

“With utmost style,” Phil replies with an offhand smirk. He notices how his hips swing more than usual as he strides over to the wardrobe, selecting a few items off of hangers and walking over to the adjacent changing area. “Follow my lead, motherfuckers.”

 

*

 

“Five till you’re on!” Lexis calls, adding a few finishing touches to Michael’s silver swirling face paint. Phil hollers in affirmation, fixing his jacket. His eyes trip up his form in the floor-length mirror. Black Vans peek out from under painted-on white skinny jeans, the same wine-red shirt he had worn on the night of Bella’s wedding under a thin black leather jacket. He straightens his bowtie, taking one last deep breath.

 

“Come _on_ ,” Ingrid groans, grabbing Phil by the scruff of his neck and hauling him down the bustling corridor to where the rest of his act waits excitedly. Jem is tapping out his set list on the metal support structures holding up the huge backdrop curtain, biting his glitter-stained lip in concentration, Gabe and Elliot are having a small war, flinging guitar picks at each other, laughing and ducking to avoid the projectiles and causing some innocent stagehands to be unfairly beaned by fast-moving picks.

 

“You’re up in like two minutes, quit acting like children,” Ingrid hisses, batting the two of them on the head with her clipboard. Gabe sticks out his tongue, skulking over to bother Michael instead, who is quietly in the corner minding his own business. Gabe claps Phil’s shoulder as he passes, casting a reassuring smile his way. Phil returns with a shaky smile, spitting out a chewed shred of fingernail.

 

Time seems to move in slow motion as the huge digital clock hanging over the stage door hits seven pm. Phil’s instrumentals all file onstage at Ingrid’s cue, and Phil wipes away a single bead of sweat tracking its way down his cheek as he trips over his own feet to follow Jem onto stage.

 

Elliot and Michael slam onstage playing, barely audible over the scream of tens of _thousands_ of people. Phil’s brain can’t quite comprehend the number as he strides over to his microphone stand, gripping the cool metal with sweating and shaking hands.

 

“Holy fuck,” he says into the mike, and the crowd goes just about dead silent. “I didn’t believe you all when it said you sold out my show in eleven days and I’m sure as hell not believing you all now.” The screams are deafening, and Phil has to actively fight his desire to find some dark place to curl up into a ball and never speak again.

 

“Well okay then. Let’s get this shitstorm started, eh?” Phil grins through his nerves, popping the microphone off of its stand and taking a couple of steps backwards. Gabe throws himself into the opening riff to their first song, and Phil has to take a second to breath with how rough and raw and _beautiful_ the notes sound blasting too-loud out of speakers taller than Phil’s head.

 

‘ _Strawberry shortcake, cream on top. Who are you doing now that you’re all grown up?’_

Phil turns his head away from the mike to take a breath, looking back over his shoulder to Michael. He’s fucking _killing_ it, playing every single note perfectly.

 

_‘Drink your wine, blur those lines, don’t cry out now you’re falling. Pretty lips can’t keep ‘em shut don’t play me babe, you’re stalling’_

The audience is singing – no, _screaming_ – Phil’s lyrics back at him, pouring all of their emotions into the words surrounding them. It hits Phil in the face like a hurricane, sending his heart racing faster than he thinks should be physically possible.

 

The song is over before it starts, and deafening screams erupt from the crowd again.

 

“Look at you,” Phil says with a small laugh, putting the microphone back on the stand and gesturing around him. “No. Do it. Look at yourselves. Each and every one are fucking beautiful, fucking wonderful and special and unique and I can’t believe any of you would want to be spending your Saturday night with me. You’re my special fucking snowflakes, and this song’s called _Stratosphere._ ”

 

Elliot wanders over to shout something in Phil’s ear, he nods, and they’re off.

 

“You know what I love about all of you,” Phil says when the song is done, gesturing out across the whole crowd. “Is that you really don’t give a fuck. Like how right now,” he reaches up and pulls down the zipper to his jacket, shaking the sticky leather down off his arms and flinging it behind him. “I can just take off an article of clothing and you guys don’t even care that I totally fucked up the end of the second verse. It’s great.” He flashes a devastating grin, stalking to the edge of the stage and winking.

 

Winter Hart, with the mask and the makeup, is beginning to feel more natural, Phil realizes as he prattles on about how much he loves the whole audience. The words come easier, and he’s less censored. It’s comfortable, he realizes, shaking his hips particularly hard when the drums come in on _Drink Me, Darling_ , stalking the stage with foreign, predatory grace. He takes a sip of water during the guitar solo, distantly wondering if Dan has recognized him yet. He shakes off the thought as soon as he has it, slamming back in to the bridge with renewed vigor. And if he casts a particularly flirtatious wink over to the VIP section, well, Phil can say he’s just playing for the audience.

 

“Jesus fuck it’s hot in here,” Phil complains, reaching up to wipe the sweat off his brow. _‘Hope this shit’s waterproof_.’ His tongue lolls out of his mouth as he undoes his bowtie, crumpling it up and tossing it backwards over his head into the crowd, deaf to the screams of hundreds of people surging to reach it. The sound sends a rush to his head, intoxicating and addicting. ‘ _Is this what fame is like?’_ he wonders idly, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt before turning back around. He glances down at the set list, nods up to Jem, and off they go again.

 

“Holy shit, okay,” Phil says, gasping for breath. “This has been one hell of a fucking adventure, let me tell you.” The crowd screams back. “I can’t fucking believe we’re on the last song of the night already, where does the fucking time go?” He grins out, adjusting the microphone stand slightly.

 

“So, this one’s going to be a little bit different, yeah?” he says while the musicians behind him are exchanging instruments.

 

“None of you will know this one, so no singing along, sorry, but I want you all, at some point during this, turn to the person next to you, doesn’t even have to be the person you came in with, and give them a fucking kiss right on the goddamn mouth. Share the fucking love people, spread it like a fatal disease.” The crowd roars. Phil holds up a hand for quiet, glancing up when things have settled down slightly.

 

“I wrote this one literally three days ago for a very special someone, so if you hear this Bear, know that I love you. So much, and forever. That’s a fucking promise” He clears his throat, blinking back the sudden hot pricks of tears behind his eyelids. “Here we go. This one’s called _Take Me To The Moon.”_

 

Elliot begins, sweet and slow, and Phil opens his mouth, ignoring the tightening in his chest.

 

‘ _In your eyes the blue moon hides, beneath your lips the blinding skies of dawn. Daybreak finds you in my arms where the jealous stars can do no harm to you. But we were born to lose._

_Take me to the moon, my darling, where we can watch the Earth spread on the sky. Blues and pinks and swirling greens a master’s art a painter’s dream and you: your color’s bleeding through your lines and seeping sweet and thick behind my eyes._

_Seedy nights and liquor dreams. I’m pulled apart dragged by the seams to you. You kissed my knuckles black and blue._

_Secrets hidden behind veils I’ve spun a web of a thousand tales and walls so high I could kiss the fragile sky._

_Frosted glass and window panes I’ll walk this earth to try and say I’m sorry. The only stars I long to see are those that bloom when you’re next to me; a shattered light that’s piercing through my veins.’_

 

The final guitar notes of the night fade out, reverberating almost painfully inside Phil’s skull, and he steps up to the stand, gripping so tight his knuckles turn white just as the piano kicks in.

 

‘ _I’ve clawed my heart out of my chest with every word I’ve just confessed. I’d understand if you’d like me to leave. But can I just implore. Before you slam the door. Let me just remind you that I love you. Okay, I’ll go.’_

“Thank you London, I’ve been Winter fucking Hart and these are some other awesome motherfuckers, goodnight!”

 

Phil’s heart is pounding out of his chest as he leaves the stage, followed closely by the other four musicians. They all make their way to the dressing room, accepting a few sweaty hugs and over-enthusiastic high-fives on the way from excited stagehands.

 

“Holy hell I love you guys,” Phil gasps, draping his arms around Gabe and Jem and bringing them in. Michael and Elliot crowd in as well, sweaty heads leaning in as Phil lets out a low, hysterical laugh. “You are the best stage musicians I could ask for, thank you guys so much.”

 

“Highlight of my career, probably,” Gabe jokes with a laugh. “I get to tell people I played for Winter Hart, guys, this is going to get me so many awesome points, you don’t even know.”

 

“Pass holders are waiting for you, Winter,” Lexis says, popping her head into to the room. Phil nods, doing a quick check in the mirror – at least his face doesn’t look half melted off, even considering how much he was sweating – and follows Lexis out the door. Around thirty people are waiting for him, waiting for _Phil Lester_ because of who he is and what he does and damned if Phil isn’t feeling all warm and squishy on the inside because of it.

 

“Hey guys,” he greets, hanging back slightly. He’s not entirely sure how this is supposed to go, if he’s being honest. Thankfully, Ingrid’s powers of telepathy seem to kick in and she swoops down to stand behind Phil.

 

“Alright, line up. You each get a couple of minutes for a picture, hug, whatever, okay? Ask questions, tell him your credit card number, have him sign your face, whatever, but so help whoever touches this man’s mask, got it?” The assembled people, already queued, nod. Phil notices a familiar head of chocolate hair, the tips beginning to curl from sweat and his stomach plummets into his shoes.

 

The people in line seem generally on the younger side, ranging from maybe mid teens to early twenties, and all of them look either awe-struck or scared out of their wits. One girl, a teenager, just touches his hand and begins bawling, chanting a steady mantra of ‘oh my god you’re real’ before asking for a hug and moving on. Most people ask for a picture and a signature, quiet and shy and reserved around Phil. He keeps a smile up the entire time, hugging everyone once they have what they want before letting them go, asking people’s names and enthusiastically responding to every little thing they tell him. One boy blurts out that he named his cat Winter, and even shows Phil a picture on his phone. Another girl, this one probably in her twenties, gets so flustered when Phil compliments her tights that she simply blurts “they’re on my Etsy” before turning beet-red and asking for an autograph. Phil laughs and complies, and suddenly the only person left is Dan.

 

Dan looks as if he’s been crying, his eyes bloodshot and ringed with red. He keeps his distance, eyeing Phil from a few feet away. Phil stands still and lets Dan look, keeping his head up.

 

“I hope to God I’m reading this right, or else this is going to be incredibly embarrassing on both of our parts,” Dan says after the stagehand motions him to hurry up. Phil opens his mouth to respond, words caught on the edge of his tongue, but Dan slams into him, knocking the breath out of Phil as he crashes into the wall. The stagehands surge forward, gloved hands gripping at Dan’s shoulders to pry him off.

 

“Please let the fuck go of my boyfriend,” Phil says when their lips separate, and the hands jump back as if burned, mumbling profuse apologies under their breath. Dan surges forward again, effectively tapping Phil between himself and the wall.

 

“Surprise?” Phil offers meekly, squeaking when Dan kisses him, hot and rough and messy.

 

“Fucking hell,” Dan mutters, peeling back and leaning his forehead on Phil’s.   
“All this time. Every fangirl rant and – all of it. You were – you are – Winter fucking Hart. This whole time. Christ.” And then words are no longer enough and his lips are back on Phil’s, sloppy and uncoordinated.

 

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me? Did you not trust me or something?”

 

Phil shakes his head fiercely, unable to fully articulate his feelings and thoughts and rationales with a hot, sweating Dan pressed to his front, pushing him against a wall.

 

“We are going to go home and have a long, heartfelt conversation about trust and communication in a healthy relationship,” Dan announces, pulling Phil’s hand. “But first, killer sex. Then the talking.”

 

Phil is one hundred percent on board with that plan.

 

“I love you, you hopeless fucking romantical sap,” Dan mutters, kissing Phil once again.

 

‘ _I love you too_ ,’ Phil says, but he doesn’t say it with his words. He says it in the way he arches his back off the wall, the way he slides his hands hot against Dan’s skin under his shirt, the way he tugs Dan’s bottom lip and begs for more. Phil says it with every fiber of his being, and thankfully, Dan can hear him loud and clear.

**Author's Note:**

> I applaud those of you who made it all the way through this tbh. Honestly, thank you for reading, feedback and comments always appreciated!! ^_^


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